University of Virginia Library

WAN LEE, THE PAGAN.

AS I opened Hop Sing's letter, there fluttered
to the ground a square strip of yellow
paper covered with hieroglyphics, which, at
first glance, I innocently took to be the label
from a pack of Chinese fire-crackers. But the
same envelope also contained a smaller strip of
rice-paper, with two Chinese characters traced
in India ink, that I at once knew to be Hop
Sing's visiting-card. The whole, as afterwards
literally translated, ran as follows: —

Hop Sing.”

Admirable, certainly, as was this morality and
proverbial wisdom, and although this last axiom
was very characteristic of my friend Hop Sing,
who was that most sombre of all humorists, a
Chinese philosopher, I must confess, that, even
after a very free translation, I was at a loss to
make any immediate application of the message.
Luckily I discovered a third enclosure in the
shape of a little note in English, and Hop Sing's
own commercial hand. It ran thus: —

“Hop Sing.”

This explained all. It meant a visit to Hop
Sing's warehouse, the opening and exhibition of
some rare Chinese novelties and curios, a chat
in the back office, a cup of tea of a perfection
unknown beyond these sacred precincts, cigars,
and a visit to the Chinese theatre or temple.
This was, in fact, the favorite programme of Hop
Sing when he exercised his functions of hospitality
as the chief factor or superintendent of
the Ning Foo Company.

At eight o'clock on Friday evening, I entered
the warehouse of Hop Sing. There was that
deliciously commingled mysterious foreign odor
that I had so often noticed; there was the old

array of uncouth-looking objects, the long procession
of jars and crockery, the same singular
blending of the grotesque and the mathematically
neat and exact, the same endless suggestions
of frivolity and fragility, the same want
of harmony in colors, that were each, in themselves,
beautiful and rare. Kites in the shape
of enormous dragons and gigantic butterflies;
kites so ingeniously arranged as to utter at intervals,
when facing the wind, the cry of a hawk;
kites so large as to be beyond any boy's power
of restraint, — so large that you understood why
kite-flying in China was an amusement for
adults; gods of china and bronze so gratuitously
ugly as to be beyond any human interest or
sympathy from their very impossibility; jars of
sweetmeats covered all over with moral sentiments
from Confucius; hats that looked like
baskets, and baskets that looked like hats; silks
so light that I hesitate to record the incredible
number of square yards that you might pass
through the ring on your little finger, — these,
and a great many other indescribable objects,
were all familiar to me. I pushed my way
through the dimly-lighted warehouse, until I
reached the back office, or parlor, where I found
Hop Sing waiting to receive me.

Before I describe him, I want the average
reader to discharge from his mind any idea of a

Chinaman that he may have gathered from the
pantomime. He did not wear beautifully scalloped
drawers fringed with little bells (I
never met a Chinaman who did); he did not
habitually carry his forefinger extended before
him at right angles with his body; nor did I
ever hear him utter the mysterious sentence,
“Ching a ring a ring chaw;” nor dance under
any provocation. He was, on the whole, a
rather grave, decorous, handsome gentleman.
His complexion, which extended all over his
head, except where his long pig-tail grew, was
like a very nice piece of glazed brown papermuslin.
His eyes were black and bright, and
his eyelids set at an angle of fifteen degrees;
his nose straight, and delicately formed; his
mouth small; and his teeth white and clean.
He wore a dark blue silk blouse; and in the
streets, on cold days, a short jacket of astrachan
fur. He wore, also, a pair of drawers of blue
brocade gathered tightly over his calves and
ankles, offering a general sort of suggestion, that
he had forgotten his trousers that morning, but
that, so gentlemanly were his manners, his
friends had forborne to mention the fact to him.
His manner was urbane, although quite serious.
He spoke French and English fluently. In
brief, I doubt if you could have found the equal
of this Pagan shopkeeper among the Christian
traders of San Francisco.

There wee a few others present, — a judge of
the Federal Court, an editor, a high government
official, and a prominent merchant. After we
had drunk our tea, and tasted a few sweetmeats
from a mysterious jar, that looked as if it might
contain a preserved mouse among its other nondescript
treasures, Hop Sing arose, and, gravely
beckoning us to follow him, began to descend
to the basement. When we got there, we were
amazed at finding it brilliantly lighted, and that
a number of chairs were arranged in a half-circle
on the asphalt pavement. When he had
courteously seated us, he said, —

“I have invited you to witness a performance
which I can at least promise you no other foreigners
but yourselves have ever seen. Wang,
the court-juggler, arrived here yesterday morning.
He has never given a performance outside
of the palace before. I have asked him to entertain
my friends this evening. He requires no
theatre, stage accessories, or any confederate, —
nothing more than you see here. Will you be
pleased to examine the ground yourselves, gentlemen.”

Of course we examined the premises. It was
the ordinary basement or cellar of the San-Francisco
storehouse, cemented to keep out the
damp. We poked our sticks into the pavement,
and rapped on the walls, to satisfy our polite

host — but for no other purpose. We were quite
content to be the victims of any clever deception.
For myself, I knew I was ready to be
deluded to any extent, and, if I had been offered
an explanation of what followed, I should have
probably declined it.

Although I am satisfied that Wang's general
performance was the first of that kind ever
given on American soil, it has, probably, since
become so familiar to many of my readers, that
I shall not bore them with it here. He began
by setting to flight, with the aid of his fan, the
usual number of butterflies, made before our
eyes of little bits of tissue-paper, and kept them
in the air during the remainder of the performance.
I have a vivid recollection of the judge
trying to catch one that had lit on his knee, and
of its evading him with the pertinacity of a living
insect. And, even at this time, Wang, still
plying his fan, was taking chickens out of hats,
making oranges disappear, pulling endless yards
of silk from his sleeve, apparently filling the
whole area of the basement with goods that
appeared mysteriously from the ground, from
his own sleeves, from nowhere! He swallowed
knives to the ruin of his digestion for years to
come; he dislocated every limb of his body; he
reclined in the air, apparently upon nothing.
But his crowning performance, which I have

never yet seen repeated, was the most weird,
mysterious, and astounding. It is my apology
for this long introduction, my sole excuse for
writing this article, and the genesis of this
veracious history.

He cleared the ground of its encumbering
articles for a space of about fifteen feet square,
and then invited us all to walk forward, and
again examine it. We did so gravely. There
was nothing but the cemented pavement below
to be seen or felt. He then asked for the loan
of a handkerchief; and, as I chanced to be nearest
him, I offered mine. He took it, and spread
it open upon the floor. Over this he spread a
large square of silk, and over this, again, a large
shawl nearly covering the space he had cleared.
He then took a position at one of the points of
this rectangle, and began a monotonous chant,
rocking his body to and fro in time with the
somewhat lugubrious air.

We sat still and waited. Above the chant
we could hear the striking of the city clocks,
and the occasional rattle of a cart in the street
overhead. The absolute watchfulness and expectation,
the dim, mysterious half-light of the
cellar falling in a grewsome way upon the misshapen
bulk of a Chinese deity in the background,
a faint smell of opium-smoke mingling
with spice, and the dreadful uncertainty of what

we were really waiting for, sent an uncomfortable
thrill down our backs, and made us look at
each other with a forced and unnatural smile.
This feeling was heightened when Hop Sing
slowly rose, and, without a word, pointed with
his finger to the centre of the shawl.

There was something beneath the shawl.
Surely — and something that was not there
before; at first a mere suggestion in relief, a
faint outline, but growing more and more distinct
and visible every moment. The chant
still continued; the perspiration began to roll
from the singer's face; gradually the hidden
object took upon itself a shape and bulk that
raised the shawl in its centre some five or six
inches. It was now unmistakably the outline
of a small but perfect human figure, with
extended arms and legs. One or two of us
turned pale. There was a feeling of general
uneasiness, until the editor broke the silence by
a gibe, that, poor as it was, was received with
spontaneous enthusiasm. Then the chant suddenly
ceased. Wang arose, and with a quick,
dexterous movement, stripped both shawl and
silk away, and discovered, sleeping peacefully
upon my handkerchief, a tiny Chinese baby.

The applause and uproar which followed this
revelation ought to have satisfied Wang, even
if his audience was a small one: it was loud

enough to awaken the baby, — a pretty little
boy about a year old, looking like a Cupid cut
out of sandal-wood. He was whisked away
almost as mysteriously as he appeared. When
Hop Sing returned my handkerchief to me with
a bow, I asked if the juggler was the father of
the baby. “No sabe!” said the imperturbable
Hop Sing, taking refuge in that Spanish form
of non-committalism so common in California.

“But does he have a new baby for every performance?”
I asked. “Perhaps: who knows?”
— “But what will become of this one?” —
“Whatever you choose, gentlemen,” replied
Hop Sing with a courteous inclination. “It was
born here: you are its godfathers.”

There were two characteristic peculiarities of
any Californian assemblage in 1856, — it was
quick to take a hint, and generous to the point
of prodigality in its response to any charitable
appeal. No matter how sordid or avaricious the
individual, he could not resist the infection of
sympathy. I doubled the points of my handkerchief
into a bag, dropped a coin into it, and,
without a word, passed it to the judge. He
quietly added a twenty-dollar gold-piece, and
passed it to the next. When it was returned to
me, it contained over a hundred dollars. I
knotted the money in the handkerchief, and
gave it to Hop Sing.

“For the baby, from its godfathers.”

“But what name?” said the judge. There
was a running fire of “Erebus,” “Nox,” “Plutus,”
“Terra Cotta,” “Antæus,” &c. Finally
the question was referred to our host.

“Why not keep his own name?” he said
quietly, — “Wan Lee.” And he did.

And thus was Wan Lee, on the night of
Friday, the 5th of March, 1856, born into this
veracious chronicle.

The last form of “The Northern Star” for
the 19th of July, 1865, — the only daily paper
published in Klamath County, — had just gone
to press; and at three, A.M., I was putting aside
my proofs and manuscripts, preparatory to going
home, when I discovered a letter lying under
some sheets of paper, which I must have overlooked.
The envelope was considerably soiled:
it had no post-mark; but I had no difficulty in
recognizing the hand of my friend Hop Sing. I
opened it hurriedly, and read as follows: —

And this was the long-delayed answer to my
letter to Hop Sing. But where was “the bearer”?
How was the letter delivered? I summoned
hastily the foreman, printers, and office-boy,
but without eliciting any thing. No one

had seen the letter delivered, nor knew any
thing of the bearer. A few days later, I had
a visit from my laundry-man, Ah Ri.

“You wantee debbil? All lightee: me
catchee him.”

He returned in a few moments with a bright-looking
Chinese boy, about ten years old, with
whose appearance and general intelligence I was
so greatly impressed, that I engaged him on the
spot. When the business was concluded, I
asked his name.

“Wan Lee,” said the boy.

“What! Are you the boy sent out by Hop
Sing? What the devil do you mean by not
coming here before? and how did you deliver
that letter?”

Wan Lee looked at me, and laughed. “Me
pitchee in top side window.”

I did not understand. He looked for a moment
perplexed, and then, snatching the letter
out of my hand, ran down the stairs. After a
moment's pause, to my great astonishment, the
letter came flying in the window, circled twice
around the room, and then dropped gently, like
a bird upon my table. Before I had got over
my surprise, Wan Lee re-appeared, smiled, looked
at the letter and then at me, said, “So, John,”
and then remained gravely silent. I said nothing
further; but it was understood that this was
his first official act.

His next performance, I grieve to say, was not
attended with equal success. One of our regular
paper-carriers fell sick, and, at a pinch, Wan Lee
was ordered to fill his place. To prevent mistakes,
he was shown over the route the previous
evening, and supplied at about daylight with
the usual number of subscribers' copies. He
returned, after an hour, in good spirits, and
without the papers. He had delivered them all,
he said.

Unfortunately for Wan Lee, at about eight
o'clock, indignant subscribes began to arrive at
the office. They had received their copies; but
how? In the form of hard-pressed cannon-balls,
delivered by a single shot, and a mere tour de
force, through the glass of bedroom-windows.
They had received them full in the face, like a
base ball, if they happened to be up and stirring;
they had received them in quarter-sheets,
tucked in at separate windows; they had found
them in the chimney, pinned against the door,
shot through attic-windows, delivered in long
slips through convenient keyholes, stuffed into
ventilators, and occupying the same can with
the morning's milk. One subscriber, who waited
for some time at the office-door to have a personal
interview with Wan Lee (then comfortably
locked in my bedroom), told me, with tears
of rage in his eyes, that he had been awakened

at five o'clock by a most hideous yelling below
his windows; that, on rising in great agitation,
he was startled by the sudden appearance of
“The Northern Star,” rolled hard, and bent into
the form of a boomerang, or East-Indian club,
that sailed into the window, described a number
of fiendish circles in the room, knocked over the
light, slapped the baby's face, “took” him (the
subscriber) “in the jaw,” and then returned out
of the window, and dropped helplessly in the
area. During the rest of the day, wads and strips
of soiled paper, purporting to be copies of “The
Northern Star” of that morning's issue, were
brought indignantly to the office. An admirable
editorial on “The Resources of Humboldt
County,” which I had constructed the evening
before, and which, I had reason to believe,
might have changed the whole balance of trade
during the ensuing year, and left San Francisco
bankrupt at her wharves, was in this way lost to
the public.

It was deemed advisable for the next three
weeks to keep Wan Lee closely confined to the
printing-office, and the purely mechanical part
of the business. Here he developed a surprising
quickness and adaptability, winning even the
favor and good will of the printers and foreman,
who at first looked upon his introduction into
the secrets of their trade as fraught with the

gravest political significance. He learned to set
type readily and neatly, his wonderful skill in
manipulation aiding him in the mere mechanical
act, and his ignorance of the language confining
him simply to the mechanical effort, confirming
the printer's axiom, that the printer who
considers or follows the ideas of his copy makes
a poor compositor. He would set up deliberately
long diatribes against himself, composed by
his fellow-printers, and hung on his hook as
copy, and even such short sentences as “Wan
Lee is the devil's own imp,” “Wan Lee is a
Mongolian rascal,” and bring the proof to me
with happiness beaming from every tooth, and
satisfaction shining in his huckleberry eyes.

It was not long, however, before he learned to
retaliate on his mischievous persecutors. I remember
one instance in which his reprisal came
very near involving me in a serious misunderstanding.
Our foreman's name was Webster;
and Wan Lee presently learned to know and
recognize the individual and combined letters of
his name. It was during a political campaign;
and the eloquent and fiery Col. Starbottle of
Siskyou had delivered an effective speech,
which was reported especially for “The Northern
Star.” In a very sublime peroration, Col.
Starbottle had said, “In the language of the
godlike Webster, I repeat” — and here followed

the quotation, which I have forgotten. Now, it
chanced that Wan Lee, looking over the galley
after it had been revised, saw the name of his
chief persecutor, and, of course, imagined the
quotation his. After the form was locked up,
Wan Lee took advantage of Webster's absence
to remove the quotation, and substitute a thin
piece of lead, of the same size as the type, engraved
with Chinese characters, making a sentence,
which, I had reason to believe, was an
utter and abject confession of the incapacity and
offensiveness of the Webster family generally,
and exceedingly eulogistic of Wan Lee himself
personally.

The next morning's paper contained Col.
Starbottle's speech in full, in which it appeared
that the “godlike” Webster had, on one occasion,
uttered his thoughts in excellent but perfectly
enigmatical Chinese. The rage of Col.
Starbottle knew no bounds. I have a vivid
recollection of that admirable man walking into
my office, and demanding a retraction of the
statement.

“But my dear sir,” I asked, “are you willing
to deny, over your own signature, that Webster
ever uttered such a sentence? Dare you deny,
that, with Mr. Webster's well-known attainments,
a knowledge of Chinese might not have
been among the number? Are you willing to

submit a translation suitable to the capacity of
our readers, and deny, upon your honor as a
gentleman, that the late Mr. Webster ever
uttered such a sentiment? If you are, sir, I am
willing to publish your denial.”

The colonel was not, and left, highly indignant.

Webster, the foreman, took it more coolly.
Happily, he was unaware, that, for two days
after, Chinamen from the laundries, from the
gulches, from the kitchens, looked in the front
office-door, with faces beaming with sardonic
delight; that three hundred extra copies of the
“Star” were ordered for the wash-houses on the
river. He only knew, that, during the day, Wan
Lee occasionally went off into convulsive spasms,
and that he was obliged to kick him into consciousness
again. A week after the occurrence,
I called Wan Lee into my office.

“Wan,” I said gravely, “I should like you
to give me, for my own personal satisfaction, a
translation of that Chinese sentence which my
gifted countryman, the late godlike Webster,
uttered upon a public occasion.” Wan Lee
looked at me intently, and then the slightest
possible twinkle crept into his black eyes. Then
he replied with equal gravity, —

“Mishtel Webstel, he say, `China boy makee
me belly much foolee. China boy makee me

heap sick.”' Which I have reason to think was
true.

But I fear I am giving but one side, and not
the best, of Wan Lee's character. As he imparted
it to me, his had been a hard life. He
had known scarcely any childhood: he had no
recollection of a father or mother. The conjurer
Wang had brought him up. He had spent the
first seven years of his life in appearing from
baskets, in dropping out of hats, in climbing
ladders, in putting his little limbs out of joint in
posturing. He had lived in an atmosphere of
trickery and deception. He had learned to look
upon mankind as dupes of their senses: in fine,
if he had thought at all, he would have been a
sceptic; if he had been a little older, he would
have been a cynic; if he had been older still, he
would have been a philosopher. As it was, he
was a little imp. A good-natured imp it was,
too, — an imp whose moral nature had never
been awakened, — an imp up for a holiday, and
willing to try virtue as a diversion. I don't know
that he had any spiritual nature. He was very
superstitious. He carried about with him a
hideous little porcelain god, which he was in the
habit of alternately reviling and propitiating.
He was too intelligent for the commoner
Chinese vices of stealing or gratuitous lying.
Whatever discipline he practised was taught by
his intellect.

I am inclined to think that his feelings were
not altogether unimpressible, although it was
almost impossible to extract an expression from
him; and I conscientiously believe he became
attached to those that were good to him.
What he might have become under more
favorable conditions than the bondsman of an
overworked, under-paid literary man, I don't
know: I only know that the scant, irregular,
impulsive kindnesses that I showed him were
gratefully received. He was very loyal and
patient, two qualities rare in the average
American servant. He was like Malvolio, “sad
and civil” with me. Only once, and then under
great provocation, do I remember of his exhibiting
any impatience. It was my habit, after
leaving the office at night, to take him with me
to my rooms, as the bearer of any supplemental
or happy after-thought, in the editorial way,
that might occur to me before the paper went
to press. One night I had been scribbling away
past the usual hour of dismissing Wan Lee,
and had become quite oblivious of his presence
in a chair near my door, when suddenly I
became aware of a voice saying in plaintive
accents, something that sounded like “Chy
Lee.”

I faced around sternly.

“What did you say?”

“Me say, `Chy Lee.”'

“Well?” I said impatiently.

“You sabe, `How do, John?”'

“Yes.”

“You sabe, `So long, John'?”

“Yes.”

“Well, `Chy Lee' allee same!”

I understood him quite plainly. It appeared
that “Chy Lee” was a form of “good-night,”
and that Wan Lee was anxious to go home.
But an instinct of mischief, which, I fear, I
possessed in common with him, impelled me to
act as if oblivious of the hint. I muttered
something about not understanding him, and
again bent over my work. In a few minutes I
heard his wooden shoes pattering pathetically
over the floor. I looked up. He was standing
near the door.

“You no sabe, `Chy Lee'?”

“No,” I said sternly.

“You sabe muchee big foolee! allee same!”

And, with this audacity upon his lips, he fled.
The next morning, however, he was as meek
and patient as before, and I did not recall his
offence. As a probable peace-offering, he
blacked all my boots, — a duty never required
of him, — including a pair of buff deer-skin
slippers and an immense pair of horseman's
jack-boots, on which he indulged his remorse
for two hours.

I have spoken of his honesty as being a
quality of his intellect rather than his principle;
but I recall about this time two exceptions
to the rule. I was anxious to get some fresh
eggs as a change to the heavy diet of a mining-town;
and, knowing that Wan Lee's countrymen
were great poultry-raisers, I applied to him.
He furnished me with them regularly every
morning, but refused to take any pay, saying
that the man did not sell them, — a remarkable
instance of self-abnegation, as eggs were then
worth half a dollar apiece. One morning
my neighbor Forster dropped in upon me at
breakfast, and took occasion to bewail his own
ill fortune, as his hens had lately stopped
laying, or wandered off in the bush. Wan Lee,
who was present during our colloquy, preserved
his characteristic sad taciturnity. When my
neighbor had gone, he turned to me with a
slight chuckle: “Flostel's hens — Wan Lee's
hens allee same!” His other offence was
more serious and ambitious. It was a season
of great irregularities in the mails, and Wan
Lee had heard me deplore the delay in the
delivery of my letters and newspapers. On
arriving at my office one day, I was amazed
to find my table covered with letters, evidently
just from the post-office, but, unfortunately, not
one addressed to me. I turned to Wan Lee,

who was surveying them with a calm satisfaction,
and demanded an explanation. To my
horror he pointed to an empty mail-bag in the
corner, and said, “Postman he say, `No lettee,
John; no lettee, John.' Postman plentee lie!
Postman no good. Me catchee lettee last
night allee same!” Luckily it was still early:
the mails had not been distributed. I had a
hurried interview with the postmaster; and
Wan Lee's bold attempt at robbing the United
States mail was finally condoned by the purchase
of a new mail-bag, and the whole affair
thus kept a secret.

If my liking for my little Pagan page had
not been sufficient, my duty to Hop Sing was
enough, to cause me to take Wan Lee with me
when I returned to San Francisco after my two
years' experience with “The Northern Star.”
I do not think he contemplated the change
with pleasure. I attributed his feelings to a
nervous dread of crowded public streets (when
he had to go across town for me on an errand,
he always made a circuit of the outskirts), to
his dislike for the discipline of the Chinese and
English school to which I proposed to send
him, to his fondness for the free, vagrant life of
the mines, to sheer wilfulness. That it might
have been a superstitious premonition did not
occur to me until long after.

Nevertheless it really seemed as if the opportunity
I had long looked for and confidently
expected had come, — the opportunity of placing
Wan Lee under gently restraining influences,
of subjecting him to a life and experience
that would draw out of him what good my
superficial care and ill-regulated kindness could
not reach. Wan Lee was placed at the school
of a Chinese missionary, — an intelligent and
kind-hearted clergyman, who had shown great
interest in the boy, and who, better than all,
had a wonderful faith in him. A home was
found for him in the family of a widow, who
had a bright and interesting daughter about
two years younger than Wan Lee. It was this
bright, cheery, innocent, and artless child that
touched and reached a depth in the boy's
nature that hitherto had been unsuspected;
that awakened a moral susceptibility which had
lain for years insensible alike to the teachings
of society, or the ethics of the theologian.

These few brief months — bright with a
promise that we never saw fulfilled — must have
been happy ones to Wan Lee. He worshipped
his little friend with something of the same
superstition, but without any of the caprice,
that he bestowed upon his porcelain Pagan god.
It was his delight to walk behind her to school,
carrying her books, — a service always fraught

with danger to him from the little hands of his
Caucasian Christian brothers. He made her the
most marvellous toys; he would cut out of
carrots and turnips the most astonishing roses
and tulips; he made life-like chickens out of
melon-seeds; he constructed fans and kites, and
was singularly proficient in the making of dolls'
paper dresses. On the other hand, she played
and sang to him, taught him a thousand little
prettinesses and refinements only known to girls,
gave him a yellow ribbon for his pig-tail, as best
suiting his complexion, read to him, showed him
wherein he was original and valuable, took him
to Sunday school with her, against the precedents
of the school, and, small-woman-like,
triumphed. I wish I could add here, that she
effected his conversion, and made him give up
his porcelain idol. But I am telling a true
story; and this little girl was quite content to fill
him with her own Christian goodness, without
letting him know that he was changed. So
they got along very well together, — this little
Christian girl with her shining cross hanging
around her plump, white little neck; and this
dark little Pagan, with his hideous porcelain
god hidden away in his blouse.

There were two days of that eventful year
which will long be remembered in San Francisco,
— two days when a mob of her citizens

set upon and killed unarmed, defenceless foreigners
because they were foreigners, and of
another race, religion, and color, and worked
for what wages they could get. There were
some public men so timid, that, seeing this,
they thought that the end of the world had
come. There were some eminent statesmen,
whose names I am ashamed to write here,
who began to think that the passage in the
Constitution which guarantees civil and religious
liberty to every citizen or foreigner was
a mistake. But there were, also, some men
who were not so easily frightened; and in
twenty-four hours we had things so arranged,
that the timid men could wring their hands in
safety, and the eminent statesmen utter their
doubts without hurting any body or any thing.
And in the midst of this I got a note from Hop
Sing, asking me to come to him immediately.

I found his warehouse closed, and strongly
guarded by the police against any possible
attack of the rioters. Hop Sing admitted me
through a barred grating with his usual imperturbable
calm, but, as it seemed to me, with
more than his usual seriousness. Without a
word, he took my hand, and led me to the rear
of the room, and thence down stairs into the
basement. It was dimly lighted; but there was
something lying on the floor covered by a shawl.

As I approached he drew the shawl away with
a sudden gesture, and revealed Wan Lee, the
Pagan, lying there dead.

Dead, my reverend friends, dead, — stoned to
death in the streets of San Francisco, in the
year of grace 1869, by a mob of half-grown
boys and Christian school-children!

As I put my hand reverently upon his breast,
I felt something crumbling beneath his blouse.
I looked inquiringly at Hop Sing. He put his
hand between the folds of silk, and drew out
something with the first bitter smile I had ever
seen on the face of that Pagan gentleman.

It was Wan Lee's porcelain god, crushed by
a stone from the hands of those Christian iconoclasts!